Shagwell was on his knees when she turned, looking dazed as he fumbled for the morningstar. As he staggered to his feet, another stone slammed him in the ear. Podrick had climbed the fallen wall and was standing amongst the ivy glowering, a fresh rock in his hand. “I told you I could fight!” he shouted down. Shagwell tried to crawl away. “I yield,” the fool cried, “I yield. You mustn’t hurt sweet Shagwell, I’m too droll to die.” “You are no better than the rest of them. You have robbed and raped and murdered.” “Oh, I have, I have, I shan’t deny it... but I’m amusing, with all my japes and capers. I make men laugh.” “And women weep.” “Is that my fault? Women have no sense of humor.
A feast of crows. R.R. Martin
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